The Ballad of Violence and Grace
by Fibbonacho
Summary: *PREVIOUSLY TITLED WYRDA* When Eragon leaves Alegaesia, trouble follows him. When Arya finds peace, she is left wanting. Will Eragon be lost to the darkness? Will Arya be true to herself? Continuation from book IV.


**Implications**

Arya's face was twisted in an intense frown, her sharp, noble features taking on a fierce cast. She stood opposite Narí, the Elven envoy and ambassador to the humans. She had been walking the city, letting herself be seen by the citizens and taking stock of their general disposition, when the young elf found her. He had first asked for her at Tialdarí Hall, where by all rights she should have been, ruling her kingdom as usual and treating with Lords and Ladies of the prominent elven houses. Today, however, she had ajourned the court early. Politics had never been her calling, and it wore her down. The preparations for Lord Raëthal's initiative were well underway, and push was coming to shove. Relations between houses were deteriorating, and given the reservation with which elves corresponded, the courtesy of elven dialect had gone from relentless to venomous. Every word was a hidden dagger, every sentence a log under which a viper lay poised to strike. Never did any of the house leaders deviate from their polite, detached courtesy, but where statements and questions had been previously vague and ambiguous, now there were threats, some poorly hidden, some well-concealed.

Never had Arya seen her people so divided. The situation might have been easier to handle, had she been the high queen of Alegaësia. Humans, at least, had little taste for political intrigue. Those that did only had a handful of decades of influence, and not the power to enforce it. Humans were straightforward, at least compared to her people. If they were unhappy, they told you. If they hated you, they declared war. But when centuries could go by, not knowing that an individual considers one their enemy, traps lay everywhere. It was a constant game, one that a person had little chance to influence, but everyone was forced to play. Arya hated it. After this morning's proceedings, Arya had had as much as she could handle. She called the court to a close, and spent the rest of the morning walking, letting the sights and sounds of the eternal forest soothe her troubled mind. That was, until Narí found her.

"That concludes my report, my queen", Narí said with graveness in his voice.

Arya took a couple of seconds to digest the information Narí had just shared with her.

"And this information is how old?"

"Only two days, dröttning."

Arya found it hard to take in all at once. Blödgharm, dead. Eragon alone, separated from Saphira, and most likely outnumbered by hostile magicians. Nasuada had already arranged for a squad of spellcasters from Du Gaga Vrangr to rendezvous with a contingent of Orik's finest heavy infantry at Ceris in a week. The elves' assistance was not being asked for, as elves alone had comprised Eragon's guard force, and Nasuada had seen the proposal as unnecessary. The assassin that took Blödgharm's life had used an enchanted obsidian spear, capable of bypassing wards, and Orik already had teams investigating the obsidian mines in his realm.

 _So much has passed under my nose without my seeing it._

"I thank you for your haste, Narí. You have performed your duties admirably", Arya said.

"Your words are too kind, dröttning. I have only done as I ought."

"Even so. Do you intend to linger in Ellesméra?"

"I suppose my decision awaits your own. I would not think to pry, but what I report to the humans relies on the course of action you, my queen, choose to take, and of course, what you wish for me to tell them. My loyalty is to the elves first."

"I was right to name you my successor as ambassador. You have a talent for it. As for my decision, you can expect to wait for a couple of days. There is the matter of Lord Raëthal's initiative. Come, walk with me."

Arya and Narí strolled from the gardens out into a more residential area of the city. Ellesméra was much more populated now than it had been during the Varden's rebellion against Galbatorix. None had spoken about it, but many elves had secretly feared a direct assault against the city, and over the course of Galbatorix's reign had relocated deeper into the forest. With the news of the King's death, many had returned to previously abandoned houses, and once again Ellesméra sounded like the elven capital it was. As the two passed underneath a heavily laden treehouse, Arya began briefing Narí on the fragile politics of current events, though Eragon and Saphira's plight still plagued her thoughts.

"The logistics are moving apace, but the recruitment process is going slower than we anticipated. My assumption is that many of our people were excited at the proposition of leaving our forest and experiencing the cultures of the other races, but when the recruiters came knocking, the reality of leaving home and family hit them, and they were unable to commit. We had a large force of volunteers join during the first day, but since then, only a few each day, usually in the morning. We may have to launch the operation on a smaller scale at first, which will hinder the capabilities of each unit."

Arya raised an eyebrow to the ambassador, who seemed lost in thought.

"You seem to have some thoughts on the matter. I would hear them."

Narí shrugged, then caught himself halfway after realizing his lapse in decorum.

"There may be an upside to this situation", he commented. "In fact, the more I think about it, the more advantages I see. First, logistics will be much easier on our nation if our deployed forces are lighter in numbers. We will save coin on wages, and the empire's cities will be much more accommodating with lodging a smaller force. What we save on the logistical footprint, we can spend on other areas, such as equipment. Every soldier to ever live has coveted a more elite unit's gear, their weapons. Armor, or even implements not tactical in nature. We are not a materialistic people, I know, but I think that with a smaller force, we can afford to equip and train them better than otherwise. That will help make up for the lack in numbers."

Arya was silent for a long minute as they walked.

"You are probably right. My role in the war was not as an infantryman, so my experiences likely do not relate closely to those who will comprise the bulk of our forces. More often than not, my missions were time sensitive, and so I didn't need nor want extra gear to slow me down. Not that it would have helped any, as many of the operations I took part in were focused on stealth and secrecy. Sometimes even my leather armor fealt cumbersome and clunky, and I would have done away with it entirely had I not needed some form of protection. Our army will face a starkly different mission than I did. Tell me, what equipment do you think our warriors could want for to better ready them for any threats they may face?"

Narí answered quickly and with enthusiasm.

"Polearms and plate armor, my queen. I have been reading into recountings of the battle at Ceunon, and the battle of Gil'ead. I've read into the detailed reports of our field commanders, and they all seem to sing the same tune: that while an elf is unmatched in single combat, against heavy infantry formations, all of our born advantages are nullified. With enough strength, one can cut through mail, but steel plate is another story. While our blades don't sustain damage from battling such materials like mundane weapons do, neither can they pierce it except in rare instances."

"I found a good example in Lord Garendor's memoir of the Battle of Gil'ead. He fell, as I'm sure you know, at Iliria, when he faced Barst, with Queen Islanzadí."

Arya frowned, but nodded for him to continue.

"I apologize, dröttning. I did not mean to bring up such bad memories."

"Do not worry about me, youngling. I can handle my emotions. Continue with what you were saying."

Narí continued, though bitten by her sudden demeanor.

"As he wrote in his journal, his company was the first to breach the gates of Gil'ead. He sustained minimal casualties up until that point, but was met with a battalion of heavy infantry directly inside. They were arranged in standard formation, a fifty to sixty-man front, about twenty ranks deep. Only the first four or five ranks were in full plate armor, but they effectively barricaded the entire street, so there was no navigating around to strike from the side or behind. Thus, Garendor was forced to attack them head-on. His company suffered horrible losses, dashing themselves against the wall of shields and men. In such a scenario, our superior abilities gave no advantage, and our forces were slaughtered until the enemy's magicians were destroyed and their wards defeated."

"I had not read Garendor's report", Arya admitted flatly. "You seem to be well-read when it comes to warfare. Tell me: would you also have us strut about in formations like the humans and dwarves do?"

"I would not discount it, my queen", Narí replied. "It seems silly, since we are able to defeat almost any human one-on-one, but we cannot overlook the tactical advantage these formations provide. I offer thee a question, my queen: If a thousand of our people were to fight a thousand humans who equaled our athleticism, how could we best prevent our forces from being slaughtered? I would outfit them with the best armor, the biggest shields, and the longest weapons, so that they could be protected from injury, protect their comrades, and present any threat with a wall of spears prickly enough to rival an urgal's hide."

Arya gave a derisive wave of her hand. Humans were many hundreds of years away from being able to compete with the physical prowess of elves. It would happen, eventually, as their race's bond with the dragons, and through them the elves, molded them, and made them stronger, faster, and keener of sense. It could take thousands of years, but it _would_ eventually come to pass.

 _Perhaps we could look into heavy infantry tactics. It couldn't hurt._

"I will consider your words, Narí-Finiarel. But I will tell you now, I see no sense in outfitting our troops for a form of warfare they do not practice. Perhaps in time, when our forces have trained in this, I may hear their opinions on whether it is more viable than our current procedure. Only then will I consider outfitting an entire _army_ with polearms and plate armor, the latter of which is several times more expensive than mail or scale, as I'm sure you know."

"I Thank you, my queen."

They said no more for several minutes as they circumnavigated the outskirts of Ellesméra. After nearly fifteen minutes of silence, the clamor of combat began to trickle into existince. They were nearing the training grounds. Arya was curious to see who was practicing; most of the elves who fancied themselves warriors were organizing themselves into camps outside the city, awaiting recruits and orders before marching to their assigned deployments in a few days' time. She increased her pace, as they neared the treeline, Narí working to keep up.

When they emerged from the twilight of the forest, Arya was met with surprise. As the elven queen broke free of the vegetation lining the field, one of the three combatants was disturbed for just long enough to receive a curt sting on the back of the head from the false edge of a double-bladed staff, knocking her into her comrade, who promptly ate a series of blows to the torso and face. As both elves recovered from their loss in what had been a two-versus-one fight, Arya and Narí took the time to approach the prospective warriors.

"And _that_ , Iduna, is why being outnumbered is not always a bad thing", the short, curly-haired person was saying as Arya drew near. Arya had recognized all three at first glance: the two elven combatants were the caretakers, the twins, Iduna and Nëya. They were nearly identical, except for their hair. The short one was none other than Angela. Arya's lips curled upwards in a rare grin as she bowed to the witch, and initiated the traditional elven greeting.

"May the stars watch over you."

Delighted by her presence, Angela returned the greeting.

"And may good fortune rule over you, Arya Dröttning. It is good to see you!"

"And as always, it is a pleasure to see you as well, wise one", Arya replied warmly.

"If I am wise, a donkey must be a mule", said Angela matter-of-factly.

"But what is a mule but a horse-like donkey, oh wise one?" Replied Arya with sly satisfaction. She was learning how to play the witch's game.

Angela's eyes narrowed until they were barely visible slits, as she was forced to consign to defeat.

"Your mind is sharper than ever, Arya. Have you been riddling lately?"

Arya feigned confusion, the closest thing to a lie that the ancient language would allow.

"I suspected as much", Angela said wryly. "It is refreshing, I suppose. To have a worthy opponent in a contest of wit. You are far and away the better of the rest of your kin. Perhaps your time with the dwarves didn't leave you as unmarred as we all thought, did it?"

Angela laughed, and stepped aside, allowing Iduna and Nëya to greet their queen. After their salutations were complete, Narí stepped forward and greeted everyone in turn as well. Greetings aside, Arya allowed her curiosity to show face, and asked after the three's sparring session.

"Oh, that?" Angela dismissed. "Just a bit of practice, 'twas all. Nëya came to me at my lodging with a request to spar, and it _has_ been quite some time since I practiced, myself, so I acquiesced."

"Two against one doesn't seem to be much of a fair fight", Arya ventured.

"And indeed it wouldn't be", Angela responded, "except for this": Angela hefted her Hûthvír. "Two opponents, two blades."

Arya tilted her head, letting her eyes wander over the dwarven weapon. It was about as long as she was tall, with thick, slightly curved blades on each end. Rather short for a polearm, but then again, Angela was rather short as well. Angela's stature was no hinderance, Arya knew. The woman was frightengly knowledgeable in magic, and though she would struggle to physically match most anybody, Arya seriously doubted the witch would ever have to. Angela had a way of always being quaintly prepared for whatever situation arose.

"Very well. Would you mind if we stood by and watched your next bout?", Arya asked, motioning towards Narí with her hand.

If Angela had appeared even the slightest bit winded after her previous exhertions, the weariness dissapeared instantly.

"I would be delighted! Everyone knows how accomplished a swordsman you are, you no doubt could offer some criticisms on my form. Nëya? Iduna? What say you?"

The twins glanced at each other, unsure. "We..." Iduna started. "We would be honored for you to witness our combat, dröttning", Nëya finished.

"Good", Arya confirmed. She took several steps toward the treeline, motioning for Narí to do the same. "Do not wait on our account. Continue as if we were not even here, I insist."

The twins gave each other silent looks, then spread out, forming a rough triangle with the herbalist. At no discernible cue, both elves lunged forward, viciously slashing and stabbing at the witch with all the ferocity they could muster. Angela was a cyclone, spinning and parrying every almost impersceptible blow. If the elves' weapons were blurs, the hûthvír was invisible. To Arya, it seemed as though the twins' weapons were deflected by nothing at all.

Arya focused on the witch's hands. Where her hands were, she was able to see the stave of the hüthvír. The further Arya tried to follow the weapon from Angela's hands, the less visible it became. Eventually she unfocused and contented herself with watching all three with less attention on any single one. Still, she picked up various bits of information as she watched the fight play out. Iduna and Nëya were perfectly synchronized, thrusting and withdrawing in tandem like a two-headed viper. _They must be in each other's minds,_ Arya observed. The fight for them was more like a choreographed dance than a fight, which was why, Arya was sure, they were going to lose.

Each party in the skirmish had impeccable form, the result of centuries of honing the art of warfare. But there was a difference in mindsets that was observable to the practiced and knowledgeable eye. The twins approached combat ceremoniously, while Angela wanted to _win._ There was but one flaw that Arya could find in any of the fighter's form, though it wasn't in how they handled their weapons, but themselves. Arya noticed early that the twins were not effectively spacing themselves. In a two-versus-one scenario, the most effective positioning was on opposite sides of the opponent, so that the defender had less time to react to blows from opposing sides, and more distance to cover with their weapon to ward off attacks from either.

This bout played out very differently. Iduna and Nëya were both attacking from the front, driving and stabbing like matched blades. High-low, left-left, parry-thrust, lunge-dodge. The withering assault was taking every ounce of Angela's concentration, but her defense was infallible. Her staff was a blur, parrying and blocking every hit like she knew where the twins would strike before they did. Eventually, Angela found her opening. The twins each attacked in the same manner: a diagonal slash from right to left. Angela blocked both blades straight-on, feinted a similar attack, and then spun three hundred and sixty degrees into a squat, bracing one end of the hûthvír in the small of her back. The false edge of her blade caught Nëya full on the calf, knocking her feet out from under her. Iduna was briefly stunned, but that was all the time Angela needed to reposition herself so that Iduna was between them. Angela struck furiously, in wild, unpredictable patterns of varying speed and power. Iduna was clearly outmatched, and was driven steadily back.

Nëya had recovered from the leg sweep almost instantly, but was now unable to strike at Angela. Whichever side of her twin Nëya tried to move around, Angela moved the opposite direction, keeping Iduna between them as Angela wore her down. Angela soon made short work of Iduna by shoving her full in the chest with the haft of the hûthvír and unbalancing her. Nëya had no time to prepare as her twin backed into her, unbalancing them both. Angela pressed harder, striking furiously left, left, then right, then left again, faking left, hitting right, without even a split second's respite. Iduna must have thought she figured out Angela's pattern, because as Angela again feinted a slash from the top-right, she committed to parrying what she knew was going to be a quick jab to her left hip.

But Arya knew deep down that Angela had no pattern. She was improvising as she went, and so when Arya saw the recognition and determination in Iduna's eyes, it was then that she knew the fight would only last another second. As Iduna swung her blade down to parry, Angela again struck out with the right blade, catching the elf full in the face. Iduna's head snapped backwards, stunned, and tripped over Nëya's rear foot. Iduna's pain was enough to stun Nëya through their mental link, and when she recollected her composure, it took her almost a full second to realize that the blade of Angela's staff was pressed firmly into the hollow of her neck.

"That was some splendid martial artistry", Arya applauded. Narí was likewise impressed, his eyes wide.

"I keep telling them", Angela said breathlessly, "to mix things up. Not everyone can be taken down by sheer persistence. I can see everything they're going to do three strikes beforehand."

"That's because you know all the secrets of the universe", Arya said with a smile. Angela responded with a sly look that concealed a bit of warning, which was not lost on her. "But I do believe I saw something else worth mentioning", Arya continued. "Iduna, Nëya."

"Yes dröttning?" Nëya asked. Iduna was still massaging her cheek where the Hûthvír had struck her.

"The biggest mistake I saw was your spacing. When fighting a singular opponent, you want to keep them between yourself and your ally. That way, instead of fighting both of you as a pair, your enemy has to fight you each individually. I have no doubt that you are both capable warriors in your own rights, but you must strive to fight as individuals instead of as partners. It may be romantic to think of combat as a dance, but it is most definitely not. There are effective warriors who are pretty to watch, yes. But a welding hammer will kill as easily as an arrow. It is not about grace and style, we fight to kill."

"Yes, my queen", they both said.

"Very well said", Angela chimed in. "I still believe that you both should work on improvisation. You were too predictable."

As they debriefed their sparring session, Angela grabbed her things, disassembled her weapon, and the party made its general way back toward the city. It was still a few hours before sundown, and each member had their own matters to attend to. The herbalist was the first to break from the group, heading in a seemingly random direction. No one asked after her, as they knew they would likely receive an unintelligible response anyways. As they made their way back towards the center of Ellesméra, Arya and Narí came up with numerous suggestions to help the twins improve their skills, before they too split from the group.

"What do you plan to do about Master Eragon?", Narí asked after a moment of silence.

"I do not yet know", Arya confessed, troubled. And she truly didn't. From where she stood, she could not see a possible course of action that would make anything better. She and Fírnen could fly out to aid him tonight, but there was no guarantee she would be of any use, and she would be putting herself and Fírnen both at risk. No, it would not be the wise thing to do, no matter how strongly she wished to be by his side, cleaving through his enemies. Neither would it be fitting of the elven queen to do so, even if she _could_ help him.

So she was back to the proverbial drawing board, and she did not have much to go on. Eragon had left Areleńa days ago, after giving Nasuada a brief report. The assassin that had killed Blödgharm was most likely part of a larger cell, from studying the rushed quality of the spear, which suggested mass production. The spear had been made of obsidian, and apparently had the unique characteristic of being able to bypass wards. Normal volcanic glass didn't do that, which alluded to a possible blood-curse, possibly similar or related to the process used to curse seithr oil.

Nasuada and Orik were both deploying troops to rendezvous at Ceris, from where they would sail as far as the river would take them. The plan was to establish a camp near Du Fells Glaëthr, from which patrols could be sent and information could be gathered. Humans and dwarves would never be able to keep up with Eragon, nor would they be any help from what Arya knew of him. He didn't want a full-scale conflict. He wanted to go cloak-and-dagger. It's what she would do.

Having a strategic position near the mountains would hinder any measurable force's ability to resupply, and with an aggressive patrolling routine, would deny the enemy a large area of operation. Arya had first seen the effort as largely symbolic: that there was little tactical value in sending forces into uncharted territory, with no support, to fight an unconventional enemy of unknown size. While she still held that view, Arya now saw the sense in it. Yes, the elven nation may have supplied the entire guard force for the dragons, but if Narí's account of Nasuada's plan was correct, elven troops could very well spell the difference between victory and defeat if a patrol was ambushed. Not to mention, Arya smiled as she realized, deploying elven soldiers would be an excellent political opportunity to show that the elven people could be counted on in times of strife.

"I believe", Arya began, "that I am going to redirect one of our platoons to aid Nasuada's magicians and Orik's soldiers. They'll meet them at Ceris, before moving onward to Du Fells Glaëthr."

Nari looked as though he was going to raise an eyebrow, but appaently had the good sense and self control not to.

"As you say, dröttning."

They continued walking for several more seconds, until it was clear that Arya would share no more insight on her plans. Narí begged his leave, and Arya granted it. He branched off down a side path, whistling thoughtfully. Arya took note of his departure, as the elf's house was much further toward the center of the city. She drew the conclusion that he, like so many others, now found her presence uncomfortable. Again, Arya was reminded of the weight of her position.

 _What they say is true. It is lonely at the top._

 _I find that flying helps remedy the loneliness,_ Fírnen broke in.

 _You've been quiet today,_ said Arya.

 _I've been busy._ Through their mental link, Arya received the sensation of bone crunching beneath Fírnen's iron jaws.

 _Ah. How far did you go?_

Fírnen shared with her his impression of endless waves of treetops, their infinite number rolling like an artist's abstract interpretation of the ocean. Once he caught a glimpse of a herd of deer near the edge of a clearing, the chase had begun. Deer, like most animals, instinctively ran at the percussive sound of a dragon's wings. Fírnen spared her the details of the hunt, but Arya saw enough to know that he had felled two on this trip, which would keep him satisfied for three or four days.

Arya envied Fírnen, in a way. He owed his allegiance to no one. He was free. At any given time, he could decide to fly away, to parts unknown, and there was not a being in Alegaësia that would stop him. She, on the other hand, was beholden to Ellesméra, and to her people. She could leave, but not without days of arrangements, planning, and permissions from those her absence would affect. And she would always have to return. _Always._

Arya sighed. Not for the first time, she felt her anger rising at the injustice of past events. She had been essentially railroaded into the position of monarch. Centuries of planning and political maneuvering by influential elves many times her age had resulted in a tightly-woven net of reason and circumstance from which there was no escape. Her choice had been foisted upon her, hardly a choice at all. It had been _necessary._ She had taken the responsibility with high hopes for the future, and a determination to uphold her mother's legacy. Now, however, she wanted nothing more than to leave the city of twilight far behind.

 _I feel like a scared animal in a hunter's trap._

 _I know you do, Arya. You already know how I feel. I see not why we cannot simply go where we please._

 _Because,_ she sighed. _Our actions affect more than just us._

 _You keep saying that,_ Fírnen retorted. _But what would really happen were we to just fly away, and never return?_

 _You know I could never do that, Fírnen._

 _Humor me._

 _Well,_ she paused. She hadn't ever actually thought about it. She had accepted her fate, and despite her recurring feelings of helplessness and claustrophobia, she _did_ still have responsibilities to her people. Not only that, but those responsibilities were part of who she was. She would not abandon her duties, no matter her discomfort. But Fírnen seemed insistent they play this little game, so she acquiesced.

After thinking about if for several seconds, _I suppose they would elect a new leader._

 _Right,_ Fírnen confirmed. _Do you think that no one can fill your shoes? That you alone are fit to rule? To say yes would indicate a dangerous superiority complex, my rider._

 _No,_ she replied. _Any number of elves could do my job, and a fair number, I suspect, could do it better._

 _So your sense of "duty". What say it, now?_

 _If there is someone better fit to carry on the torch than I, it is only right that they do so. The people deserve a leader that is not only devoted, but one who excels at the demands of power._

Fírnen approved.

 _But,_ she broke in, _It is I that they chose. I cannot step down, such a thing has never happened in our history. It would be the ultimate shame._

Fírnen was silent for a long minute. Then: _I believe I may have a solution. It is only an inkling of a thought, and so I will not yet share it with you, but it could be the answer to our problem._

Arya raised an eyebrow as she continued walking down the wide trail that served as a road, though no one was around to see her do it. She let Fírnen be, however. He would tell her what she needed to know when he was ready. She was walking in the general direction of Tialdarí hall, even though the sun had yet to set, she wanted time to herself before she retired for the night. Fírnen's words troubled her, though. She was uncomfortable with the prospect of resigning from her throne. It felt like quitting. It felt as though she was considering the abandonment of her people.

As she continued through the rapidly darkening forest, she walked passed the home of Däthedr's house. It was ancient, many times older than most of the dwellings in the city. _He will know what to think about this,_ she thought, veering towards the atrium of his hall. Just before she reached the entrance, she had a change of heart, and turned around, walking back to the trail she had been following. _He was one of my staunchest supporters to my ascension,_ she thought. _He could not possibly have a neutral opinion on this, of all matters._ She looked back at the amber glow emanating from between the bows and arches that had been coaxed to grow out of the ancient tree, the soft light of numerous erisdar suffusing it in a warm panoply of light from within.

Arya sighed, and resumed her trek through the ever-darkening woods. As she neared the center of the city, she was greeted by a waxing cacophony of sound. Laughter, engrossing conversations innumerable, and the various noises of elves pursuing whatever craft caught their fancy. On a limb above her head, a woman whistled mindlessly as she wove silken tapestries in the ugalgran style. Two of her completed pieces already hung from an arch that sprawled above the entrance to a modest yet elegant treehouse. To Arya's right, at the next dwelling, a man sat and spun a lump of clay in the rough shape of a vase, singing all the while. By his feet were pieces of every size, shape, and application. Patterns had been set in each, some in texture, some just in color, and others yet in both. Each piece was museum-quality, and the pieces that displayed both color and texture in their decorations seemed to come alive as the dwindling light hit them from between the branches of the sprawling canopy overhead.

Arya passed two men, fervently talking about something. As she passed, she heard one of them say: " _solid gold, petals, leaves, and all! There was an entire field of them, apparently."_ The other man seemed skeptical, and so the first, with a muttered spell, produced one of Eragon's golden lilies. The second elf gasped in astonishment, and whispered " _and it's alive..."_ Arya smiled as she passed them, doubting they had noticed her paying such close attention to their conversation. She remembered that night very clearly.

 _The sky was clear and black, full of stars gleaming overhead. Even without the fire, she could see as perfectly as if it had been day time. She had just finished her heart-wrenching recountance of the death of her friend, Fäolin. She hugged her knees, watching the insubstantial tendrils of flame dance in the dark. From her left, she heard Eragon's voice lift in a rough, simple melody. Despite the changes to his body, his voice had remained distinctly his own. It was rough and unpracticed, like most humans. Despite it's unrefined quality, there was a richness and...soul to his tune that found many elven bards wanting. As he sang, the seed in his hand sprouted and grew, tentatively at first, then faster as his confidence increased. When he was done, the plant bore a single flower, a white and blue lily that glowed faintly in the light from the stars and the fire. As he handed it to her, she was shaken at the thought that this Eragon, the one with whom she now sat but a fire deep in enemy territory, was not the person she had met the previous year. Then, they both felt the wind pick up, and sensed energy in the air as a group of spirits augered towards them. Arya still remembered the sensation, the sense of rapture, of ecstasy, as the lead spirit touched her, and she pleaded Eragon to do the same. She remembered the look on his face as he was filled with the purest bliss, and of the darkness that returned to it once the spirit retracted itself. She looked down at the flower Eragon had sung for her, and it had turned to gold, it's petals now fiery blades in the wane light..._

Arya sighed, content, as she remembered those days, of living with a purpose, of intrigue and uncertainty, and of gilded lilies. Then she frowned, as she realized that for Eragon, those days were far from over. Even now he was likely stalking his prey, bow strung and in hand, fierceness painted on his face like the snarl of a mountain wolf, avenging the death of an ally and friend.

 _I should be there with him,_ she thought to herself.

Fírnen nonchalantly replayed the day's earlier conversation to her, which did nothing to assuage her mood, only darkening it further.

He patiently tried to placate his rider. _I know you wish to be by his side,_ Fírnen said. _And we both know that if we had somehow been indisposed, we would already be winging our way there. I'm sure Eragon knows that, as well._

Arya said nothing in return, only continued on her way. She caught a glimpse of Sloan, who was speaking softly with an elven woman. She gave him a nod as she strode past, and Sloan shot her an acknowledging glance. Arya would have stopped to talk to him, but she was no longer in the mood to converse with anyone. She simply wished to bathe and surrender to her dreams. She increased her pace slightly, just faster than what one would consider a comfortable walk. Fírnen had evidently taken it upon himself to meet his rider at her dwelling, for Arya spotted his glittering green hide long before she could make out Tialdarí Hall through the foliage. Once he spotted her, he lifted his enormous head, puffing loudly. Arya quietly walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around the underside of his jaw. She held him for a second, and they both quietly enjoyed the embrace. Arya felt a sense of amusement growing from her dragon, and before she could think to let go, Fírnen lifted her off the ground with his neck, and shook playfully, forcing her to hang on like a child being shaken by a kull.

 _Fírnen! What are you doing? People are watching! What will they think of their queen if they see you shaking me about like a cat's toy?_

 _Perhaps they will think you fun-loving and unconcerned with stiffness and formality. Be it such a bad thing?_

 _Yes! I am a monarch! Stiffness and formality are parts of my title!_

Arya laughed then, a large smile smeared on her face. Fírnen gently lowered his head until her feet brushed the ground, and she let go of his jaw, landing lightly on the forest floor. She rubbed a patch of scales under his giant, glittering eye, eliciting a single blink from her dragon. He returned to his sleeping position, his head resting on an outstretched foreleg, for all the world a much more dangerous version of a guard dog protecting his master's house.

Arya opened the door to her room, the familiar sights and smells welcoming after such a long and eventful day. She first filled the depression in the floor with water, then heated it, all with two words. She disrobed, and began removing a day's worth of filth from her skin. When she was done, she reheated the water, and allowed herself to sink further into it, letting all of her accumulated stress melt away. Through a gap between the near-seemless wall grown from dozens of trees that served as her window came a smooth, lilting melody from one of the adjacent dwellings. The woman's voice was light and delicate, singing in a somber soprano.

Arya closed her eyes, and let her head fall back against the edge of the bathing pit. The song wandered on for several minutes, eventually picking up a couple more voices that harmonized remarkably well. As the final note died, Arya let out a sigh. The water was beginning to cool again, and she had already lingered for too long. She opened her eyes, and immediately smiled, a big, toothy smile. She held out her hand, and the messenger stone gently fell into her palm.

Arya was hit with a bolt of energy that lanced through her veins like liquid fire. She could not move, could not see, nor hear. All she could feel was a searing pain that drowned out all sensation. Faintly, she heard the words of the ancient language pound on the back of her head like a giant drum, every stroke signaling the footsteps of fate itself. Her name. Control of her body soon left her, and then her sight dimmed. Paralyzed, she gazed up at the ceiling, unseeing.

She screamed.


End file.
